The Legend of the Scarlet Pimpernel
by Baroness Emma
Summary: - "Once upon a time..." said Sir Percy, "there was a daring young knight...and a beautiful actress...and they lived in a land beset by Revolution..." - TSP prequel featuring Orczy's beloved characters, historical cameos, and the "forgotten" love triangle.
1. How it Began

**~* The Legend of the Scarlet Pimpernel *~

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_**A/N**__ I do not own The Scarlet Pimpernel or any of Orczy's characters. Neither do I own rights to any of the famous quotes I use in this story. All the historical appearances and events have been fictionalized and are intended for entertainment only. I do not intend offense to any government, organization, caste, creed or gender._

_If there are any Russian poetry buffs out there, be warned, the Pushkin poem I'm eventually going to use (but do not own) is a deliberate anachronism - no flames for that, please._

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"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it."

- W.H. Murray

"The first person saved by the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel was. . . Percy Blakeney."

- Sir Andrew Ffoulkes

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**How It Began**

_"Tell me again, Grandfather. I want to hear it again!"_

_"Now then, Antony!"_

_"But. . . Grandfather says he doesn't mind telling it. . . not to __**me**__. . . and Father and Uncle Armand say it all __**really **__happened."_

_"That doesn't excuse your making demands of your Grandfather, Antony. Beg his pardon at once!"_

_"But. . . Aunt Violet!"_

_Sir Percy Blakeney laughed at this repartee between his daughter and his eldest grandson. When George's little Antony was born, Sir Percy took the boy under his wing as an especial favourite, and, as everyone followed Blakeney's lead, the lad was now in a fair way to being spoiled. But, it didn't seem to make the child mean-spirited, it only emboldened his tongue a little - a trait that Sir Percy's prim daughter Violet had little use for - but, in truth, both daughter and grandson were aching to hear the story told again._

_"Now then, now then," said Sir Percy easily, "What's all this fuss?" He harumphed gently and looked as sternly as he could at his two beloved companions._

_"This infant jackanapes is demanding "The Story" again, father, and if you're at all inclined to discipline him for it . . ."_

_"Tush, tush, Violet, my dear," said Sir Percy, with a twinkle in his eye, "La! I declare, it's no trouble, and you know it, my girl!" He laughed heartily, "Ha Ha! It was always __**your **__favorite too, as I recall!" Then Violet smiled, ruefully blushing, and nodded. Sir Percy lifted Antony onto the settee beside him, and asked, "Well then, how do you propose we start off, my dear boy?"_

_"The beginning! The beginning, of course, Grandfather!"_

_"Mm-hmm. The beginning," said Sir Percy, almost seriously. "Well, let me see. . . " Blakeney leaned back against the cushions, settling in for a long recitation. He took a deep breath, and began -_

_"Once upon a time. . . in a land not so very far away. . . but. . . oh. . . so very long ago. . . there was a daring young knight, and a beautiful princess, and they lived in a magic kingdom. Now, this magic kingdom was beset by terribly wicked dragons, who would go about the countryside breathing fire and cursing threats throughout all the villages."_

_Antony grinned, coaxing, "Were they horrible beasts, Grandfather?"_

_"Yes, great and awful monsters, my lad," said Sir Percy, "With twelve bloody claws on each hand, and their mouths were six feet wide."_

_Antony shuddered, "But they wouldn't ever eat people, would they Grandfather?" He asked eagerly, for he knew what was coming next._

_Blakeney smiled, "No, no, my boy, they wouldn't eat people. They did something much more terrible," Sir Percy lowered his voice to a secretive whisper, "They would make people eat each other. . . . . ._

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Freedom! One word, yet so much surrounds it that it's very meaning can get lost in the explanation. What does it mean to be free? All men are free to be born and free to die - though they seldom get to choose the timing of either. A living man is free to breathe if there is air, to eat if there is food, to drink if there is water - and he is equally free to suffocate, starve or go thirsty if there are not these things. Some men are free to make their names great in time and place they live. The men who live in the times following them are free to tear down those great names and set up their own instead. Few men are ever free to do exactly as they please - either with their time or with their thoughts.

It is this last that most mean by freedom.

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The closely knit country community of Grenoble began the month of June quite tranquilly, never expecting to be attacked. Their crops had been poor, certainly. The taxes had risen cruelly, as a matter of course - they had dealt with that before, and would again. There had been some unrest, but what did anyone expect? Of course people were unhappy - their bellies were empty. The regiment of Paris troops that had been dispatched to "look after" them had not had much to do to keep order. No one had much inclination to rebel against what was, then, an insuperable force. Everyone was told to be calm, and so they were. But, today, they gathered together for a council in the town square - a council that had not been announced by the city fathers. They had only done so, so that they could, perhaps, glean some happiness from the Paris men who were come to talk to them. Life was always hard, here in the shadow of the mountains. A new face, new words, new ideas, all were rare. To hear something new, to see something different, why, that was entertainment!

Up on one of the stony tors that surrounded the city, Louis St. Just, an eloquent young lawyer, grinned joyously into the teeth of a fresh summer wind. This place was just exactly right. He turned to his friend - also a lawyer - who had just come up beside him to look down on the red tile roofs of the city.

"Well, Louis, my friend, do you think you can do it?" he asked.

"I am sure I can, Jean. These people can be stirred up to anything - if it is said right. Those troops from the King will get so alarmed at an illegal assembly, that they will probably swarm." Louis gestured expansively. "The people will have just heard that all King's Troops attack for no reason - oppressing the people - and the swarm will convince them of it. Then. . . well. . . who knows what then?" Louis looked excitedly at his friend. "And, is Jean Mounier ready for this day?"

"Oh, undoubtedly," said Jean, "But, I do wish. . ." he hesitated.

"Yes, my friend?"

Jean was reluctant to speak, but he felt he must. "I do wish. . . somehow. . . that there was another way. . . "

Louis laughed. "Another way? Why?" He made a fist and shook it in triumph, "We are going to take this country by storm! Us! The young! The new thinkers, the better thinkers! We must and will wake this people up." He leaned in confidentially to his friend, "A new age is coming, Jean. If you like it or not, this is how it is coming - there is no other way."

"Yes, I suppose that is true."

"Of course it is true, Jean! You wait and you will see. When it comes time for the great and noble names of France to be called, yours and mine will be named first - all because of this day! We will have started it; tipped the first pebble into the balance of Fate. . ."

"Yes, yes, my friend," said Jean impatiently, "No need to waste your eloquence on me. We will need it all down there, in an hour or so." He gestured at the red roofs of the town that was his home. Louis could not really understand how he felt. After all, Grenoble was so far from Paris. . . And, of course, Louis would never feel about Paris what Jean felt about Grenoble. He sighed, just a little. "It might as well begin here. . ." said Jean quietly, "Yes. . . Let it begin here!"

"And let it cover all of France!" Louis was ecstatic.

"I think it will cover all of France," said Jean guardedly, "and faster than you think. Do be careful Louis. . ."

"Yes," said Louis, thoughtfully, "But first, I will not be careful! Come. The day is waiting." He turned and walked purposefully down the hill. Jean took a deep breath, and followed him.

The day turned out far better than either Jean Mounier or Louis Saint-Just ever hoped. The soldiers attacked - right on cue, when Louis knew they would. The people fled, at first, but then they turned, remembering the speech they had just heard about how they were The People - that they, really, were the rulers of France. The soldiers poured through the streets, pushing everybody into the long rows of houses, shouting that they must keep calm, keep order, keep quiet. The people fled into the houses, but did none of these things. No one ever found out who began it, but first one person, then another, stood atop the roof of his house, shouting, jeering, and throwing great shards of roofing tiles down to the heads of the soldiers. Ah! What a new idea! It was the King, no doubt, who had made the crops poor, and the people ignorant, and the soldiers fierce. Why not take that power back? Yes. Yes, why not? And the tiles fell, and the soldiers shot, and everybody was bruised and some people bled, and then. . . as of a sudden. . . it was over.

Did the streets run red? No. Did The People rise up to regain all power? No. But, the step had been taken. A new thought had been born.

A new age had begun.


	2. Youth And Intelligence

**Youth And Intelligence

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Seeming far away from any turmoil, a young man stood alone on a broad stone terrace, staring at the setting sun. The wind blew softly around him, heavily scented with the essence of lilac and of summer roses. The west, adorned in proper pomp with a huge bank of pink and purple clouds, reflected the golden light dancing across the lower sky, and mixed freely with the subtle silver sheen of starlight with which the upper dome of blue had frosted itself. The new moon was long since risen, but it was only just then that her softer, eerier light made any impression on human eyes. Off to the south, just above the river, she was sitting behind a swiftly moving curtain of mist - hiding - like a strangely solid wisp of cloud.

The young man sighed at this beautiful scene - just then any force of beauty was enough to hurt him. He idly moved an unlit pipe across his lips, for he was not fond of smoking. To him, it was too much like being in debt, too much like being tied to something - or someone - that does not improve as time goes on. With a quick, jerky movement he put his hand to head, as if to smooth away an inner ache, and he sighed again, quietly. Suddenly he tossed the despised pipe onto a table, and began to pace back and forth, back and forth, his eyes fixed on the fading sun, his long stride measuring out his thoughts like a metronome, clack, clack, clack. . .

He was, indisputably, a handsome man; the clear skin and tall, well-knit frame spoke of long hours out of doors; the sensitive lips and well modeled hands spoke of excellent breeding, and his bright eyes and open countenance spoke volumes as to his character. He wore fine, rich clothes, but - lavish as they were - they did not significantly distract from these favorable impressions - they only proved that this young man also knew how to dress. In truth, he was a picture; a veritable embodiment of youth and vigor, hard for any - be they man or woman - to despise as unfit or useless. But, as his boots tapped off the seconds, worry, self-reproach, exasperation, disgust, helplessness and a strange unexplainable boredom all showed themselves by turns on his face. He was distinctly agitated, and clearly did not feel at home with himself. Any commonly endowed observer would think (and they would be right) that something of particularly unpleasant moment had recently occurred in this young man's life to make him turn to the sunset for advice. The peace and beauty of the splendid English countryside at evensong should have had the power to bring calm to any troubled spirit. But, both sun and moon, and even the stars were silent, not offering any comment to this man or his life. His boots went on, slowly clack-clacking off the time, until it should be quite dark.

"Ah-hem."

A polite and cultured cough sounded from the doorway behind the young man, cutting through his morbid musings. He paused and half turned to his waiting manservant.

"Yes, Edwards?" The young man's tone was slightly impatient, but his voice was not unkind.

"There is a visitor for you, sir," said Edwards, "A young gentleman, who says his name is William the Conquerer. He refused to give any other name, sir - he said you would know whom he meant."

Edwards imparted this with the stilted mechanical tone expected of an extremely well trained servant, and upon recieving assent that his master did, indeed, know who this William was, turned crisply, and escorted the newly arrived gentleman onto the terrace. The newcomer was tall, with smooth brown hair and a cultured face. His youthful expression was offset by cunning eyes that seemed to have learned too early some of the grim lessons of adulthood - but his mouth was still far more fitted for a smile than a scowl. After stiff, stylized bows that seemed incongruous to both young men, they sat down to talk in a manner that showed abundantly their long and friendly relationship.

"William the Conquerer, eh?" said the young man to his visitor, "That's rather good. . ." he laughed a warm, shy, preoccupied laugh, "You always did like to tease the help, what?" His words were somewhat abstracted, his eyes still staring at the fading sun.

"Ye-es" said William, curiously drawing out his 'e'. He watched his friend closely. He had come to this lovely spot in Richmond to put forward an important business matter, but he knew the young man well enough to sense that all was not lilacs and roses on this summer evening. A few minutes passed before either one spoke, but the silence was more than enough for William. Finally, he decided he must break it.

"I say, old boy, you are a being a bit reclusive on this fine night, aren't you?"

The young man started. "Am I? Terribly sorry, dear fellow," he yawned loudly, finally breaking his eyes away from the West, "Of course, of course, where are my manners? Come in and have a drink." They left the terrace, and entered an exceedingly comfortably furnished parlour, where the young man poured out two measures of brandy, gallantly toasted his guest, and drank his portion swiftly.

"Cheers, old man," said William, but his voice was guarded, his expression at once worried. He sat down in an armchair, resolutely schooled his features to diplomatic blankness, and asked quite cheerily, "I suppose you've guessed why I am here?"

"You'll be wanting an answer, I assume." The young man's face was grave; the expression did not seem to suit him.

"Yes" said William, "You could be such a help, my friend..."

"I am sure I could," interrupted the young man, facing his friend boldly and quite frankly, "And, as you know, I am fully against the slave trade, and all other forms of cruelty, but you can't ask me to commit to something that I could not, could _not _- mind - stick out to the end. You _wouldn't_, William, you know you wouldn't (though I remain most humbly at your service). And I can't. Couldn't. Stick it out, I mean to say. Good God man! What are you going to do to stop this trade in man's flesh? Sign more petitions? Give demonstrations? Make impassioned speeches? You obviously can't simply sink every slave ship on the float, can you? So what does that leave? Applying political pressure! That isn't my sort of battle, man. Begad! I had my fill of politics three years ago - no more of that twaddle for me, thank you!"

"Ah. . . yes," said William, looking apprehensive, and almost miffed.

"Well, it is different for you, of course. . ." said the young man, "La! - You happen to be good at it."

"I'm also Prime Minister. . . And Wilbeforce needs help from people other than me. . ." at once William was hesitant to say more. The conversation was not going in the direction he had intended.

"Yes, my friend." The young man's tone softened, and he sat down in a large armchair, "It's just this - what _kind_ of help? My name's already on the petition - though a blame lot of good it's doing there! - and you can call on me for financial help all you want. I'm not one for public demonstrations, I don't like giving speeches, and I'm quite useless at shouting all day at people who are supposed to be on my side in the first place. . ." The young man looked up, holding his friend's gaze with his own, "If I'm really to _do_ anything at all, I'll need it to be active, vibrant, adventurous. . . even. . . dangerous, perhaps." He paused, and his voice was low, "Above all, I need to get away somewhere."

"Away?"

"Yes, away, you demmed fool!" The young man leaned his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. "Sink me, William, you could not have come at a more inconvenient time."

William said nothing, but drank his brandy slowly, folded his hands, and patiently watched his friend.

"It is over between me and Mary, William." The young man wrung the words out quietly, making a great effort, but saying them steadily.

It was William's turn to start, "Over? My dear friend, I thought everything was settled!"

"It was, William, it was," said the young man sorrowfully, "By everyone except me! Oh, I've been a proper fool over the whole thing - of course - but _what_ is a man supposed to do when two or three dozen grim dowager ladies constantly and relentlessly throw a woman at one's head?" He sighed. "Well, after a while I thought. . . " he gestured tensely, "and then _she _thought. . . and we were both wrong! What a demmed situation!"

"What happened?"

"The only thing that could, I suppose. . ." the young man sighed again, then settled down to tell the plain and grim facts. "Mary's pretty, you know - well, of course you do - she's dem pretty, and a nice girl in her own way." He began ticking points off on his fingers, "She's accomplished, fashionable, well spirited enough, hospitable, and she plays a jolly good game of croquet. . ." He paused, searching for further words.

"But?" coaxed William, gently.

"But. . . she's the most heartless, babbling nitwit of a gold-digger I've ever met! That's what! Gad! I've never seen such a woman. Talking _all_ the time, and about _nothing_." He jumped up suddenly, "Think of it, William! All day - having to listen to _total idiocy_. Even if she had talked about _herself_ it would have been better. But, she's no character to _speak_ of. Damn, what a shallow, crude little soul she has got - just like a vain little wooden puppet - and I didn't see it! Pretty eyes and easy smiles were enough to hoodwink me!" He began to pace. "God, what a fool I've been - am! I couldn't see a thing wrong. . . Not, that is, `till this afternoon, when things came to a point, at last. She was talking about having some unsightly cottage pulled down - the resident peasant family wasn't keeping it "properly" kept up, so she simply decided she that she was going to have it destroyed - she asked me what I thought of that - by gad! - then without a pause, without a twitch, without even a change of expression - she asked me whether I thought August fifth would be a good date for the wedding! Just a simple, natural question and I. . . I knew I couldn't do it. Suddenly the whole sordid future she represented made itself perfectly plain to me and I just _couldn't_. Then. . . Zounds, what a row we had! William. . . I. . ." he paused in self reproach, "I've never said such cutting things to a woman, William. . . it was terrible. She was impossible, and I assure you, I was _not_ kind." The young man shook his head at the memory. "I've felt like a cad ever since," he said ruefully, "A mean, stupid, blind and worthless cad. And yet. . . somehow. . . Damn, what an escape!" He looked at William almost pleadingly, "I couldn't marry such a woman, could I? You know me, William. I _couldn't_." He sighed again, and sat down, worn out with his confessions. Being serious was not an occupation he was used to, and a long day of restlessness had sorely tried his nerves. William had not, indeed, expected such a lengthy discourse - his friend was usually of such good humour - and _always _perfectly composed. This febrile unrest was most uncharacteristic - so much so that, in the present case, William felt that even his close friendship might not be equal to the task.

Therefore, William's only question was, "Does Andrew know?"

"Know? My dear fellow, he's been here for two hours. Right now he's down in the kitchens - trying to get some calf's foot jelly, or some such rubbish - I'm in no fit state to eat - I have to figure out what to do, where to go - something, anything! Zounds, what a mess!" He jumped up, and again began to pace. His stylish hessian boots made no sound on the thick carpet, but as he passed in front of a lighted lamp, William saw his friend's distorted shadow splay itself across the far wall. Back and forth the young man went, and William watched him, more worried than he could properly communicate.

"My friend," said William kindly, "This. . . trouble. . . of yours may be cleared up with more ease than you realize."

The young man paused, unconvinced, but listening.

"Well?" he said.

"Well," said William, "I can't promise danger, or excitement, even, but I do think you might consider that other position we discussed. . ." William paused. "You might as well know, that it was _that_ which was my reason for coming tonight. I knew quite well that Wilbeforce's battle wasn't your sort of thing - you were quite right to say I would not ask you to commit to something you could not finish." William gestured kindly at an armchair, "But, if you will remember, we did talk at some length about that. . . other battle. . . as it were. It is still there to be fought. . . if you are interested. The situation is rapidly becoming intolerable - soon it may become impossible. Collin and Derry are good enough at the job - after their own fashion - but I don't like them. I don't trust them. _You_ I trust, my friend."

Standing resolutely, the young man said decidedly, "I won't be a spy."

William stood, as his friend refused to sit. "Who said anything about spying?" he said, affecting shock. "I just want you to observe things, and tell me what you think. Report what you want, when you want, in whatever form you think fit. Just see that the information gets back to me - _any_ information. And I _do_ mean anything. You can tell me what the new fashion in cravats is, if you want to. Just _report_ something, and make it _accurate_." William sighed, exasperated. "I need this from you, my friend, and it does get you neatly out of the way. . ."

"I'll go," said the young man, suddenly. "I'll go tomorrow."

William started, slightly shocked at this turnaround, "You're sure now? You mustn't go without proper consideration of. . ."

"The facts," the young man interrupted, "Yes, I know the facts. Think you I'll not know what to do with them?"

William smiled, relieved, "No. . . of course you will. Well, that's splendid. I'll take care of all the formalities, of course, and if you should ever need something. . . well, just tell me." He turned, and made as if to go.

The young man called to him, solemnly, "Last month. . . that was just the beginning. . . wasn't it?"

An oddly mature look of worried fear came over William's face. "Yes, I'm afraid it was, my boy," he said, not turning around, "You'll be in the thick of it, before long."

"I'll be ready." The young man was very certain.

William turned his head, caught his friend's gaze, and nodded, "I'm sure you will," he said, and then, having done what he came to do, he left.

With that, the young man was alone. Slowly, a subtle change came over his bearing. The change was quite unconscious, but all the more powerful for that. His jaw clenched, just the merest trifle, and the set of his shoulders altered. His face cleared, his hands steadied, his pace slowed. No longer was he agitated or uncertain, feverish or disgusted. An introspective, solemn personality was revealed in him, and as he sat down once again, it was clear he had a clever brain, and it was busy devising a way around some problem. His best friend Andrew found him seated thus, a quarter of an hour later, when that young worthy returned with a restorative supper on a tray.

"There's no need for that now, Andrew," said the young man, "I'm quite cured."

"What?. . ." asked Andrew, justifiably shocked. "Why? . . How? . ."

"I'll explain it all later, my friend, but there's an adventure in the wind. . ."

"Ah," said Andrew, with an understanding twinkle in his eye. It was as though it all made sense to him. Perhaps it did, for he was blessed with an almost clairvoyant ability to read his friend's attitudes.

"Yes," said the young man, exultantly, "An adventure." He sighed, then looked contentedly into the distance and pressed his long, slender hands together. "France. . . here we come," he said.


	3. Intelligence And Youth

**Intelligence And Youth

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"My darling, can't you? Won't you?"

"You know I cannot! Have I not told you before?"

"You have, but I will continue to plead. . ."

"Why plead when nothing has changed?"

"Because I love you, my dearest. How can I give you up?"

"You do not have me, so how _can_ you give me up?"

"But! . ."

"Mind that vase, Louis!"

In a cluttered dressing room, Louis St. Just argued with a beautiful young woman, as they had argued many times before. The woman was dressed in lavish costume of medieval-style frills, her face boldly painted, her hair an obvious wig. As she spoke loudly to her interlocutor, she gestured in the grand peremptory fashion that only an actress masters, for only an actress can deal so professionally with everyday drama. Louis was dressed quite becomingly, but his intensity had ruffled his poise. As he argued, he looked more and more uncomfortable, and less and less composed. A small crash cut short this particular volatile conversation.

Louis paused jerkily in his assertions and bent immediately to survey the damage.

"Damn, I'm sorry, my dear," he said as he clumsily picked up the shattered glass and sopped up the water.

The young woman sighed, "It's quite all right, Louis, but you must learn to control yourself." She scooped up the scattered flowers and put them in another vase, of which there seemed to be an unending supply in the small room.

"Control? My dear cousin, control is for situations that can be controlled." He knelt before her. "How can I help loving you? You're the most beautiful, the most charming. . . "

A lightly derisive laugh interrupted him. "Oh, Louis! have you not made enough of a fool of yourself enough times to know that I am unmoved by these speeches?" She bent and pulled him to his feet. "Love me you may, but I don't love you!" He looked dissaprovingly at her, and she sighed irritably, "I _like_ you very much. I think it is terribly good of you to be my sponsor and my friend, and I wouldn't want to live in Paris without you close by. I _like_ your presence, and I _like_ your support." She took him by the shoulders and looked steadily at his face. "But, I do not love you. Not like a husband. Not even truly like a brother." She felt she was making her point and condescended to smile a little, "Now then," she said, "you _deserve_ to be loved like a husband - by someone who can. I wish you all the best, but. . . - and have I not said thus a million times? - I will not marry you!"

Louis sighed. It was obviously a familiar conversation, for he did not seem overly disappointed, or even unduly put out. He merely wished that, upon this point, he could communicate his feelings by using some other medium than argument.

"What do you want from me, _cherie_?" he asked, stepping back a little, "I adore you! Isn't your husband's adoration enough?"

"No, Louis dear. I want to be able to love him back. It is the least any husband deserves." The young woman sat down at a dressing table to put a few finishing touches on her already heavy makeup. She had tired of this over-worked subject and obviously wanted to have nothing more to do with the conversation.

"What would it take to earn your love?" Louis was inexorable. He knew he was annoying his cousin, but he had fought for three years to find an answer to this question, and he would fight for another thirty years - if that was what it took.

The young woman looked at Louis in her mirror. She was exasperated, almost angry. "I don't know!" she bit out. "If I did, I would not be sitting here, arguing it all out with you over and over again! Is there nothing else you wish to talk to me about, Louis?"

"In fact, yes, there is. . ." Suddenly, Louis became slightly tentative, but somehow also insinuatingly coaxing, "May I bring some friends of mine to your salon tonight?"

The young woman sighed, "More of your politics, Louis? Do you not ever tire of these ambitions?"

Louis straitened his jacket and smoothed his hair, "My ambitions are not the point, my dear. I merely wish to introduce you to people of intelligence from a widely spread field. Your salon is the talk of Paris - as you are well aware. Paris is not the place it was when you first came here eight years ago. If you do not balance your invitations. . . well, it could very easily be misconstrued as. . . taking sides." He sat impertinently on the edge of her dressing table.

She, quite used to his impertinence, but angry at his interference, shooed him away. "Louis!" she said, testily, "I don't take sides! I only invite people to the salon that I'm interested in - or people I think might be interested in me - and what I have to say." She looked at him reproachfully, "And what I have to say is NOT political!"

Louis was insistent. "Yet, you are a good Republican. How can you be unaware of the state of things, my dear?" He made his voice low and smooth, "I am thinking only of your protection. . ."

"My protection?" she asked, incredulous, "There is no need to treat me like a child, Louis. I am a fully educated woman! The nuns of Paris do not allow their charges to become mere complacent. . ."

Louis pointedly interrupted her, "Now, that's just what I'm talking about, darling." He reached out to take her hand. "Things like that - nuns and education, and other things which you think completely innocent - they will be very highly important topics soon. Perhaps even dangerous topics. You must let me help you to prepare for what is coming!" Louis was quite sincere, but the young woman - petted, courted, adored and worshipped as she was, paid him little heed.

"What is coming, Louis, has very nearly nothing to do with me." She sighed, condescendingly, "You may bring your friends, if you wish, but _do_ make sure they don't start making speeches or start any trouble of any kind. The last time you brought these "friends" of yours they insulted half of my guests, and severely agitated the other half. That is not the purpose of my salon, Louis, and I won't have it!"

Louis smiled, pleased, and lifted her fingers to his lips. "A wise precaution, my dear, and a good decision overall. They shall bring flowers, speak politely, and cause as little insult as is morally possible." He stood, and bowed gallantly over her hand. A quiet knock interrupted these pleasantries.

The young woman deftly removed her hand from Louis' and said sweetly, "Come in!"

A slight, active figure slipped into the cluttered room, his eager young face turning quite matter-of-fact as he talked to the young woman. "They are calling for you backstage, _petit maman_," He gave a swift glance at Louis, then looked back at her, "You had better go there soon. . ." He turned and looked hard at Louis, expectantly.

"Yes, yes, quite." said Louis, "You must go, my dear, and I shall remove myself from your way immediately." He bowed to her again, quite courteously, nodded to the eager young man, and punctilliously left the room.

"Armand, dearest," said the young woman, "Do not worry yourself so. . ." For the young man had hastily closed the door behind Louis, and turned to the young woman protectively.

Armand barked a laugh. "I am not worried," he said, "But I have no intention of letting that man pester you into his schemes, sister mine, and believe me, he knows how to pester." He surveyed his sister's countanace, and, apparently satisfied she was alright, he lifted a great load of tulle and silk from an armchair and sat down across from her.

"I will not be pestered or forced into anything by him, dearest." The young woman looked confidently at her brother. "He means well, you know, he is just too. . . enthusiastic." She tucked back a red-gold curl that had wriggled out of its confining wig.

Armand snorted. "Too enthusiastic. Yes, that's the very word." His voice softened as he looked back at her. "Not that I can entirely blame him. . . you are rather unique, sister mine." She smiled at his compliment, picked up an ostentatious fan - obviously a prop of some sort - and settled her skirts minutely. Armand watched her, half worried, half proud that such a woman - and only twenty-odd! - should be his sister. The young woman turned to go, businesslike - her job was waiting.

"Do well, _petit maman_." said Armand, very quietly.

His tone brought the young woman back to his side in an instant. She looked at him, partly in admiration, partly in wonder, and partly in almost motherly affection. Every day she was more amazed at how much she needed this brother of hers. He was now nearly thirty, but anyone would have said he was at least ten years less than that. He looked so young. . . the woman wondered if it was his body or his mind that kept him so. For seventeen years she had been his mother, and she remembered no other father than he. Ever since he was twelve, and she an innocent four, they had existed each for the other. But he had been old enough to remember when the smallpox had taken their parents from them. Old enough to grieve, old enough to regret, old enough to have a scar. Had it aged him or kept him young? She did not know. The mystery, the layers of this companion - yet one so intimate - drew the young woman to love her brother as seldom a brother has been loved. His worry, now, about what was - to her - a troublesome but harmless suitor, began to open her mind to the true state of herself.

"Brother mine. . ." she said softly, "I shall do well. . . in everything. . . if you are there to help me." She bent and lightly kissed his forehead.

Armand took her hand and squeezed it - a childish gesture, but a touchstone of the memories they shared.

"And I shall always be here for you, sister dearest," he said.

The young woman smiled, then straightened and set herself, instantly getting into the character she must soon play. The stage was waiting. She smoothed her dress again, opened her door, and stepped boldly into the world.

"Paris. . . here I come," she murmured.


	4. Paris 1788

**Paris - 1788

* * *

**

A time of glory, a time of trouble.

Paris was the glitter and the the grime of that Year of Our Lord 1788. The pendulum of the very rich and very poor had swung very wide, and the new ideas of "Liberty", "Democracy", and "Equality" were beginning to fill the breach. An equivocal monarchy, too used to its own invincible will and a hard-headed, stout-stomached peasantry too used to its own mismanagement, were on the brink of tearing themselves apart on each other. A new breed of young men, intelligent, hopeful, brave as only young men can be brave, saw this situation, and were waiting in the wings, biding their time, and licking their lips.

It was fitting, perhaps, that this time of tensile waiting was tided over by the grand pageant of entertainment for which Paris was always known. From food to clothes, to art, to dances, from speeches to plays, to even the mundane things like furniture or perfume, never had the better things in life been so ultimately the best. There were parties and feasts so lavish as to be ridiculous, and fashion and fun became so outrageous that the age coined a term - "Incroyable" - a term by which it is still known today. So many richnesses were displayed in so many ways, it was possible, for a time, to lose oneself completely from the realities of the day, and look only on the wonders, the stars come to earth, the seeming angels who turned Paris into what it was - the City of Light.

It was hardly a strange fact that the brightest of these stars seemed quite unaware of the grimmer side of the city.

But, it was a _very_ strange fact that the two brightest points of light in the brilliant Paris firmament had never met each other.

The first star was, of course, Marguerite St. Just - actress and social maven extraordinaire. She was the most delightful thing to have been born in France since Athénais de Montespan, and twice as beautiful than even that lovely woman had been. Of course, Athénais had two marks against her - she had been an aristocrat, and had been dead for over eighty years. But, Marguerite St. Just was very much alive, and had the added interest of being a woman who had fought her way to fame and social standing. In an age when quality education was usually only obtainable for a woman if she was rich, plebeian Mlle. St. Just's moderately well-born cousin had sponsored her for entry into the famous Saint-Cyr convent-school of Paris. No one knew the intimate details of the story, but it was at least partially because of this excellent coup that Mademoiselle St. Just had become, at eighteen, quite the most brilliant woman anyone could wish for. After graduation from St. Cyr, she eschewed all suggestions for a retired career, and had stormed the castle of La Maison Moliere in less than a year. Even this not being accomplishment enough, she had begun a salon which rapidly became, not a second-place royal court, but a first-place intellectual forum. Make no mistake, she queened it right royally over anyone who chose to grace her home, but no one objected, for she could - if she so chose - entertain anyone, make them sparkle, and bring out their best and wittiest sides. Even the stuffiest of elderly French generals found themselves enchanted by her wit and native charm. Her ways were winning, her looks were dazzling, her ideas were. . . acceptably modern. . . and she was blessedly unaffected. Whenever she left the stage, the very title of "actress" fell away from her, and she was a real woman, delighting in her queendom over a glittering court of admirers. She did not seem to act the part - she simply _was_ it. Her mind was keen enough to inspire real conversation, and her beauty attracted a natural and very numerous following. Invitations to #12 Rue Richelieu were selective, and the most sought after in Paris. Mlle. St. Just's smile was even more sought after, yet she managed, somehow, to make herself even more selective. Scandal did not touch Mademoiselle St. Just. It simply did not. It was impossible, but true. If she had a lover, no one knew of him. If she _wanted_ one. . . well. . . be that as it may. Fashionable Paris was baffled by this fascinating yet somehow cool-hearted woman - even disgusted, perhaps, but definitely mystified. Her brother and her cousin were the only close-orbiting planets allowed near enough to know her inner thoughts or emotions. Her brother and her cousin. . . and that was all.

The other star of Paris at that time was - at first glance - the most improbable character to ever grace the banks of the Seine. Although he was an obvious foreigner, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., was deliciously amusing (if you happened to like his English inanities - which most did), and he strode about in an palpable cocoon of good nature that lifted the spirits of just about anyone who came within line of sight of him. Admittedly, this was because he invariably made people feel, either that they were on a perfect plane of equality with him, or that they - the onlookers - were infinitely more intelligent by comparison. His clothes and his laugh were, perhaps, the only things memorable about him - but what memories they were! The way he tilted his eyeglass! His perfect cravats! The way his lace ruffles fluttered! The way his golden coat buttons gleamed, and his ringing laugh echoed! "Le Dandy Anglais", as they called him, was so harmless, so impeccable, so frilly and frothy that he was perfectly unforgettable! Of course, no one knew the slightest thing about his personal life, but what mattered that? His English friends - one or two of which stayed with him periodically - probably knew his history, but they - the English friends - were not nearly so amusing, so no one asked them much of anything. What was the point of knowing? Sir Percy was perfectly charming the way he was. Why was it that nearly the whole of fashionable Paris insistently grouped itself around this ephemeral stranger? Not a _Marquise_ or a _Duchesse_ of the day could have told you exactly why - just that he was fun, in a lighthearted and bubbly way - like champagne - and why should they care anyway?

But, everyone did care that these two great personages of Paris - the French actress and English fop - had never yet made an acquaintance. It was unspeakable that Sir Percy should have to hear second-hand all the wonderful gossip that had been bandied at Mlle. St. Just's salon, and equally horrid that those who regularly went to that salon might - by their very presence there - miss something deliciously funny that "Le Dandy" was more than likely to do or say. To get the two of them into the same room, just once - Oh! that would be entertainment indeed! Mlle St. Just, of course, could bandy words with anyone, and Blakeney was always doing ridiculous things at the functions he attended. Perhaps unfortunately, these were mostly balls, or card parties, or dinner parties, or garden parties, or anything, in fact, that promised food, drink, and a minimum of mental exertion. It was this last - so he said - that was the reason for his scrupulous avoidance of the salons - which were Mlle St. Just's _forte_.

He never expressed any opinion of her personally, but he derided all salons unabashedly. "Too much demmed thinking going on at those things - far too much," he liked to say, "Gadzooks - give me the younger generation, thank you! La! I'd rather play a lovely game of hazzard with a few merry young faces - and lose! - than have to sit about with some old bunch of brains - and talk!" And here he would yawn lustily, ignoring any explanations or protests, and then go on to win more gold at one sitting than any player (and one who was never yet suspected of cheating!) had any decent right to win.

Mlle. St. Just's opinion of the man was curtly expressed in one word - "_Idiot_" - and then she would turn back to whatever she was doing, or whoever she was speaking to, and it was as if Blakeney had never been mentioned.

Several times, a plot had been made to bring them together, but something always went wrong. No one was ever sure if it was deliberate, or just astoundingly bad luck, but the two principal players in this drama did not seem to care in least that they were depriving the whole city of a long cherished bit of gossip.

Thus, as the winter of 1788 came in, it seemed to all of French Society that the greatest and most entertaining meeting of the age would never take place.


	5. A French Comedy Act 1 The Knight

**A French Comedy ~ Act 1 ~ The Knight

* * *

**

"Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Bart.!"

The master of ceremonies bellowed his introduction above the din of dance music as Sir Andrew himself came through the grand entrance hallway. Sir Andrew almost turned to the short bewigged man and gave him a severe lesson in English pronunciation, for, French as the man was, he had seriously mangled Sir Andrew's name. But, Ffoulkes was a patient man, and quite used - by now - to common French blunders with English. Gritting his teeth, he calmly disposed himself of his greatcoat and gold-headed stick, and began to wander about the crowded Paris house, wondering anew at the ostentation of it. The people, the clothes, the scent (hm, especially the scent) - was all so. . . _beyond_. . . anything even London could produce, that he was still amazed Blakeney could stand it. Percy had always been fashionable, good natured, and very, very rich (thus no stranger to lavish indulgence), but Andrew had always known - or thought he had known - that his friend was reserved, almost shy, quietly intelligent, and above all - tasteful. Andrew walked past a gaggle of twenty-something beauties who had apparently emptied several bottles of perfume on themselves before coming to the ball that evening, and he nearly turned blue trying not to cough so much as to be impolite. He hurried on, and after a few seconds, his eyes cleared. Now then, what had he been thinking about? Oh, yes, taste. That was what Blakeney had - or Andrew had thought Blakeney had it - and now. . . where was Blakeney, anyway? For an instant Andrew was afraid he had come to the wrong place, but suddenly he heard a laugh - a distinct, unique, inimitable and unforgettable laugh. Coming from the refreshment room, naturally. Andrew began to weave his way toward it. He hoped for a bit of substantial refreshment himself; it had been a rather wearisome journey to get here. Ah! Here it was! Not surprisingly, it was also crowded and stuffy, but there was food and cool drinks. Ffoulkes was slightly disappointed at the fare - it would be punch and sweetmeats, of course - but there was Blakeney, at last - head and shoulders over everyone, his laugh sounding, his lazy eyes sparkling - the center of attention, like he always was, nowadays. Men and women bunched about him like frilly, clinging butterflies that chattered, chuntered, laughed, twittered and exclaimed at him. Well, what else did he expect? Gad, how could Blakeney _stand_ it?

Percy's voice suddenly rose above the clamour, "But _then_, you see - Sink me, ladies! If you all shouldn't cover your ears! - because _then_ it was for absolute certain that the gentleman in question. . ." A veritable hail of giggling interrupted Percy's narrative, giving Andrew time to shudder at his friend's affected tone. Ugh, what a drawl. It was fortunate indeed that Andrew knew exactly why his friend's voice had changed so much recently, or he would have rushed screaming from the room. A moment later, the crowds of admirers parted a little, giving Ffoulkes his first full glimpse of Blakeney's chosen evening attire. Oh. . . Lud _save _him. . . Andrew very nearly boggled. Granted that Percy's six-foot odd frame could handle a lot of ornamentation, but tonight it was satin brocade, silver embroidery, mechlin lace, jewels, gold (and probably a long list more), literally crammed onto an excessively fashion forward costume. Lud, if Percy hadn't totally redefined the term _jeunesse doree_! Andrew sipped his punch to keep from laughing. There was fashion, of course, but then there was_ too much_. . .

"Zounds! Is that Ffoulkes at last?" Blakeney lightly pushed his way through the crowd, raised that newest and most ridiculous of his affectations - a quizzing glass - and delightedly greeted his friend. With a mighty effort, Andrew held back laughter, bowed politely, as convention demanded, then was instantly swept up in the whirlwind of his friend's new acquaintances. It was just as well that Andrew was rendered almost completely insensible by this sudden deluge of pretty women and their perfume, because Blakeney had gone off into another of his astoundingly inane stories - tilting his quizzing glass, and laughing his new, idiotic laugh at everybody - and Andrew did not have to endure the torture of trying not to laugh too much at his friend's performance.

All at once the whole whirling party decided to go downstairs. . . and. . . there was suggestion of something else, but Andrew hadn't quite heard what it was. Suddenly he was next to Blakeney.

"Marvelous evening, I do declare - eh, what, Andrew?" he drawled easily at his friend.

"Oh! - er, yes, quite," blundered Sir Andrew, disentangling himself from two or three pairs of female hands that had been trying to take his arm. "Paris smells like it always does. . ."

Blakeney laughed, and then the fluttering group had reached the final landing where they could wait before going outside. The sun was just gone down, and it was immeasurably warmer to wait indoors for one's carriage.

"Do excuse me a moment, my friend," said Blakeney, and stepped courteously over to one of the prettiest of the young ladies.

"Angele, my dear Mademoiselle, I will see you there," he told her, gallantly. She started to protest. "No, no, " he said, "I will take my own carriage. For Andrew's sake, you see." She relented, and he bowed over her hand, kissed it, and laughed at a piece of her _repartee_.

That new laugh of Percy's did something rather strange to Andrew. Every time he heard it, he wanted to laugh himself, but the impulse was mixed with a very vague and very odd sense of worry for his old schoolmate. The laugh and the quizzing glass! Andrew shook his head. He hoped no one else would ever know just how cleverly Mary de Courcy was being impersonated by her former fiancee. Whether it was for revenge, or for subtle reasons of his own, Percy had, over the last few months, become a veritable changeling. He had captured Mary's lazy, inane strutting perfectly. His voice had altered so drastically as to be extremely strange. It was Mary's voice an it were spoken by a man - the intonation, the inflection, everything. And then his _clothes_ - the lace, the style - all were Mary's. Even that quizzing glass was the very reincarnation of Mary's fan - she couldn't hold an idea in her head without having a fan in her hand. She used it in all her gestures, used it to punctuate all her sentences, and toyed with it constantly. It was a becoming affectation on her part, except when it dawned on people that Mary's fan had a fuller personality than Mary did herself. Andrew could easily see that Percy's quizzing glass had already gained that same level of importance in this new persona. And now, Blakeney's own laugh - slightly shy, but warm, engaging and joyously alive - had been. . . _infested_. . . with Mary's very singular brand of empty amusement and infinite stupidity. Andrew sighed. All of this wasn't so bad, he supposed - it was for a good cause, after all, and Blakeney could and would drop the act the moment it was no longer needed. But he was still vaguely worried. . . wasn't it a little bit odd that Percy should enjoy this charade so much? And Andrew knew that he did. It was quite subtle, and well concealed, but he knew Blakeney well enough to notice the true ring of laughter behind all the idiocy and observe the slight tightening of determination around the lazy eyes.

Ah! At last, the carriage. The footman opened the door, and Sir Andrew followed his friend into the blessedly quiet (and un-perfumed) interior.

As soon as they were on their way, Blakeney turned to him and asked, "Tony get to London alright?"

Sir Andrew checked a start. Percy's old commanding voice, determined expression, and merry undertone were now completely evident. It still shocked Andrew, the way his friend was able to effect this immediate and total change from consummate fop to purposeful leader, but at least the latter was a personality Andrew knew.

"Yes, as far as I know," said Sir Andrew seriously, "I left them at the Fisherman's Rest - Hastings was there already - and Tony told me they intended to go up to London together. Safer, that way."

"Good," said Blakeney. "I'm sorry to say, your packet isn't done, just yet. It may be a week before you can trade with Hastings."

"Why, what's up?"

"I'm not sure. That's why I'm not done." Blakeney sighed. "But when I am, you are going to have to cross the Channel quickly - probably in the Day Dream, and take this packet to London yourself. Once there, you will give it into Pitt's hands - and no one else's - personally."

Andrew winced. "That bad?"

Percy clicked his tongue, "Worse, I'm afraid." He sighed. "It's all politics these days. . . and intrigue, and hatred, and spying, and vitriol, and the devil knows what else. . ." He snorted lightly. "This deal with Pitt is beginning to pall, I must say. . . "

Andrew laughed, slightly ironically, "Hmph. I'd say you're enjoying yourself well enough. . ." He gestured as Blakeney's outrageous costume.

"What, this?" Sir Percy laughed, "Oh, this is all right. Demmed amusing, you know, pulling yards of wool over everyone's eyes."

"Wool, eh?" Andrew half smirked. "I could have sworn there wasn't any wool in _that_ awful suit! But, perhaps I am behind in the fashion - just a little - what?"

Blakeney raised his eye-glass and surveyed him with mock gravity. "You _never_ said a truer word, my man. May I suggest a lighter colored waistcoat, and a _completely_ different way of tying that otherwise quite handsome cravat?"

Sir Andrew laughed again, "Oh, do stuff it, Blakeney!" He glanced curiously out of the carrige windows. "Just where are we going, anyway? I didn't hear."

Blakeney answered in French, "Le Théâtre Nautique - Le Comédie-Française - La Maison de Molière - however you choose to say it - the theater!" he smiled, falling back into English, "A play, Ffoulkes my lad, and nothing worse."

Sir Andrew was confused, as well as slightly miffed at Percy's display of perfect French. "A play?" Andrew's voice became a touch more forceful than he intended, "Blakeney, you _hate_ the theater! Or at least you used to."

Blakeney shrugged lightly, "True, but Angele has been clamouring for weeks that I come and sit with her father in their special box - with you here, it seemed a good time to accept."

"Ah," said Ffoulkes, suspiciously, "Angele. Of course - the St. Cyr girl. I saw you kising her hand as we left that demmed ball." He looked hard at Blakeney.

"Yes," said Sir Percy with a twinkle, "And, it's no good looking at me like that, Andrew. She's a pretty _belle_, but not at all interesting. . . Father's a bit of a martinet anyway." Percy leaned back and crossed his arms. "It's himself I allow the connection for, if you must know. The Marquis has so many political contacts that when I'm around him I can pick up secrets with a shovel!"

"A. . . shovel? Percy, do you mean. . ." abruptly, Andrew stopped, uncertain of his mental images.

Blakeney obviously knew what was passing in his friend's mind, "Yes, I do mean what I say, old boy," he barked a laugh, "A man like he is hardly likely to drop diamonds, of course, but in his presence I do feel quite the muckraker. . . you might use your imagination! It's not exactly the best company, but it is the most profitable. Under the circumstances." Almost imperceptibly, he sighed, and became the idiotic man of fashion again.

"Still," Percy drawled, "There might be something amusing about the play tonight. . . and if not . . ." he yawned affectedly, "If not, then there might be other compensations. I hear St. Cyr has hundred year old cognac during the interval - and Italian chestnuts. . ." Blakeney chattered on until the theater came into sight.

Then the carriage pulled up at the Théâtre de l'Odéon, and the curtain rose on Paris' most anticipated performance.


	6. A French Comedy Act 2 The Princess

**A French Comedy ~ Act 2 ~ The Princess

* * *

**

Armand had never seen his sister so angry. Marguerite, though always femininely emotional, was usually quite composed - especially before a performance. But now she was pacing her private dressing room like a caged panther, her costume ruffled, her makeup blurred - not at all what she needed to be half an hour before the first curtain. Armand could only think of two things that would upset her so. Either he himself had unwittingly done something terribly untoward, or. . . damn. . . it must be that Louis again! What had he been up to now?

"Sister mine?" he said gently, "Are you quite all right?"

Margot turned to him in a towering rage, but he saw in moment that the anger was not turned at himself.

"Gah!" she spat, "Louis's at it again, Armand! Political guests at my - _my_ salon. He almost orders me to invite them! _And_ there's this." She tossed him a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and tried to read it, having to hold it near to a lamp to be able to make it out.

_"My dearest Margot,_

_Do please excuse my writing such a thing to you, but what else could I do? The Republican party leaders have chosen me to be a chief aide. For Robespierre, my dear! And all his coterie! The world stands open before me. It would be most helpful if you could invite him to our salon very soon - I have told him we are as good as engaged. And you will marry me now that I have a glorious future in life? There is new order coming, and we will ride the crest of this wave to the very heights! You would be such a joy, next to me, in this, Marguerite. You will say yes? I will live in hope._

_I return to Paris on the 20th of November. Save a place for me in the front row, I implore you. I'll not miss your performance for all the world. Send my greetings to Armand._

_Yours devotedly,_

_Louis St. Just."_

Armand lent back, somewhat stunned at this epistle. Louis had always been impertinent, but this crossed the lines of propriety rather sharply. "Well. . . " he said, ruefully, "That is a. . . bold. . . letter for him to send you, dearest."

"Bold?" Marguerite was nearly shouting, "It borders on the indecent! The nerve of him - curse it! If he were not my sponsor, I'd turn him on his ear for this! If he were not my cousin, I'd have him shot!" She almost growled her displeasure. "This cousin of ours, Armand, _presumes_."

"Of course he does, Margot. You have not discouraged him enough." Armand was slightly reproachful.

"All the discouragement in the world would not stop this jackanapes! Something must be _done_, Armand. I can't stand it anymore!"

"What are you going to do?" he asked soothingly.

Marguerite began to calm a trifle, and sat down to fix the disarray of her ensemble. "I don't know," she answered Armand, "But I'm going to show Louis what for, somehow!"

Personally, Armand was glad his sister had finally taken this view of the matter. Louis's free way with her had gone on quite long enough.

"I shall help you, dear, for you know I have never liked him. . ."

"No, you never did!" said Marguerite with a strange mixture of sorrow and scorn, "But I hoped. . ." his sister's breath caught sharply, "I had always hoped, Armand, that. . ."

With a sudden crumpling gesture, his sister threw her arms over the table in front of her and burying her face in them, began to cry tempestuously.

Armand, running to her and soothing her, quietly implored God why such a mood ever had to come upon his sister. Love her as he did, still had but little understanding of these sudden changes and the depth of her emotions. Indeed, was there a young man alive who truly understood the meaning of a maiden's dreams? How much an ideal means, how hopes can be all one lives on, how hard is the pain when a dream has its rosy glow brushed away - can the feelings be the same for men as for women? Armand did try, but there was much he knew he could not say, as his words would be taken only as clumsy or even brutal platitudes. He knew she had always wanted to fall in love, and every day that she held onto that girlish dream was one more day that reality beat her more and more awake. She had refused to either harden her heart or cheapen herself by accepting that she could only feel moderate affection for anyone, and so had encouraged Louis, hoping that his ardent passion would soften her own feelings, but she had not - or could not - respond. Louis was so ambitious, had so many other interests. . . and he gave so very little of himself. . .

Armand sighed as her tears slowed. He wished. . . There were many things he wished, but he wanted Marguerite happy, first and above all.

If Louis could be taught a lesson, and if Marguerite could learn to love him, then he, Armand, would accept it. Socially and logically it was an advantageous match, of course. . .and Armand knew better than his sister just how advantageous it might come to be.

Armand sighed again. This topic was occupying far to much of her time recently. He would have to make sure she had some quiet days soon, and time alone.

Marguerite looked up, her makeup now a complete wreck, but here eyes were clear and her temper was spent.

"I am sorry, dearest. . ." she began.

"No," he interrupted, "I understand."

"Something must be done," she said, her calm voice ominous and far more dangerous than Armand had ever heard it.

"Yes," he agreed.

"You will stand by me?"

"Of course, _petite maman_." He wondered what her shrewd mind had in store.

"I will need you very much this evening, brother mine. I will not go to the Green Room. . . I will go straight home," she turned her eyes to the crumpled paper of Louis' letter, "I will deal with what I must deal. . . And I will find a way."

Armand drew his brows together in slight confusion, "To find a way, I understand. . . but why at home?"

Marguerite smiled tightly, and finally turned to hurriedly amend the havoc done to her costume, "At home, dearest, because Louis will be there - with Robespierre. . . and all his coterie." She looked up with strangely intense eyes, "Louis impertinence aside, Armand, there is something very important going on. I mean to know what it is." She patted with a sponge underneath her eyes. "It may be useful."

Armand was suddenly and inexplicably glad that Marguerite was ultimately tender-hearted. It had dawned upon him that his sister was not one of whom it was a light thing to fall afoul of. Perhaps it would be time to trust her with his own secret very soon. . . She would no doubt be invaluable to him in it.

Yes, he thought, as he cordially left her to finish her preparations for the stage. Yes. Time was coming very rapidly to a point.

It was time to act. In more ways than one.


	7. A French Comedy Act 3 The Dragon

**A French Comedy ~ Act 3 ~ The Dragon

* * *

**

Cours Boulevard in Paris is shaped like a shallow V. It is long broad street that crowns the first arrondissement, and in those days it was edged with orange trees. During the day, it was a street for bustle, a place of action, and even now, in the icy wash of a winter's night, the clack of horses hooves, and the hazy murmur of human voices still filled the Boulevard with a life of its own. Three men slowly walked this street, on that cold, clear, bracing evening. The lot of them were quite muffled up to keep out the cold, but no amount of disfiguring cloaks could wholly hide the differences between them. The first man - for it is clear they are all men - was not over tall, but active, light and quick in his movements, and his sharp hazel eyes always were darting here and there, and all over. He gave the impression of being always on the lookout, never at ease, and not quite sure, even, of his own obvious intelligence. Could we but strip away the cloth that shrouds him up to his eyes, we might see for sure that we know him, for we have been introduced the Louis St. Just before. They approached the vertex of Le Boulevard, where there was a narrower, quieter street that turned sharply off to the right. With almost military precision, the second man - the tallest of the three - strode through this abrupt turn, never taking his eyes off Louis, who was leading them to the goal. This second man wore a cloak of almost royal plushness, but it was frayed at the hem, and threadbare in places, for he did not believe in the wastage of anything that still had its use. His step was confident in the extreme, his posture exhibiting nothing so much as self-centered dominance - an attitude of his that the whole of Europe was soon to experience. Beneath the rim of his hat, which was pulled down low, we might have caught a glimpse of an emerald stare, brilliant and intense in its ambitious power. We scarcely need give this man his name either, for any student of history will have been introduced to Robespierre as well.

As they walked their way around the turn, Robespierre raised his eyes and looked down the length of Le Rue Richelieu. One could just see Le Bibliothèque Nationale from here, and on this clear night, one could also see the light coming from Le Palais-Royal. Not an over long street was the Rue Richelieu, but it had its importance. The three men of our little group knew well the importance of the small private residence which was their goal this evening. Number Twelve glowed brightly, a beacon to all who would be talking of great things.

They steered towards it, hardly needing Louis' guidance now.

Robespierre then turned to the other, smaller man beside him, whose eyes were pale amber, ghostlike and shrewd.

"Do you think it will be safe?" he whispered.

The smaller man's hands clenched beneath his muffler. "No place safer, Citoyen. Mlle. St. Just's reputation is as brilliant and spotless as her performing career. She will not allow danger to assail her guests as long as they remain her guests."

Robespierre nodded, the look on his face suggesting the arrogant sort of unconcern that might have been seen on the Serpent's face when Eden had been defiled, and it was declared the he was to forever crawl on his belly. The man who stood beside him was manifestly not a bodyguard, but he did have the gift of being skilled in his reading of people, and Robespierre - paranoid as he was, even then - trusted him, even with his life.

Robespierre allowed Louis to lead the way into Number Twelve, and as the three men climbed the steps to the front door and that door opened - they were expected - for a moment a golden red light streamed out onto Le Rue Richelieu, and anyone nearby might have seen a fascinating image, had they but the eyes to see it.

A light wind had picked up, and the edges of Robespierre's cloak lifted with it. The richly tinted light poured out over all three men's dull coloured clothing, making it glow as if with some inner fire. The darkness surrounding this one lighted house made the three forms meld - Louis the head, Robespierre the body, and the other man the tail, but all three of them intent, powerful, and focused.

It might be said that these men had but one purpose, and that one being revolution, but anyone of keen perception would, at this juncture, have seen nothing but that silhouette, dark and dangerous, with the wings flapping in a light breeze, and the three heads making the human forms melt into one of a monster's bulk. The three headed dragon of ancient Greece could hardly have been more evocative at that moment.

Then the vision was past, and three men stood in a warm, comfortable parlor, divested of cloaks and mufflers, rubbing gloveless hands before a cheerful fire, and waiting for the rest of the evening to start.

"I must go the _l'Odéon_ now, this business has made me abominably late. . ." said Louis, but trying not to seem much concerned either way.

"You will only see the last act!" said the man with the amber stare, "What is the use?"

Louis shrugged, "No matter - I said I would be there - And there's always the Green Room."

The smaller man's eyes glowed. Louis's impulse was obviously more than one of politics and influence, and perhaps the man with the amber eyes, being the older of the two, had some inkling of the greater force which was propelling Louis St. Just toward his goal.

Then the young man who had but a few moments ago seemed to be the very head of a dragon, took his stick, and his hat, and hailing a carriage, crossed the Seine, and was, in but a few minutes, standing at the very door of Le Théâtre de l'Odéon.

Louis then went to defend his treasure.


	8. A French Comedy Entracte

**A French Comedy ~ Entr'acte

* * *

**

To the uninitiated, it may seem that acting upon the stage in a prestigious house is perhaps the most glamourous of all occupations. In many ways, this illusion is, in fact, true, but the deeper truth is that all the glamour of the stage is there to be seen _while __**on**__ the stage_ - and woe to any actor or actress who tries to transfer his glamour to the serious, regimented business of "backstage". Behind the curtains, and in the wings, acting is just as much of a job as constructing a house is, and it is quite often more difficult. The directors know this, and all those who display their talents upon the stage, must, when not actually performing, submit themselves to a long list of hasty and sometimes arduous tasks. It is not exactly demeaning, but it is humbling to know that the gorgeous _bella_ singing her most triumphant _aria_ will, in a few minutes, probably be placing a paper cone over one of her compatriots faces and re-dusting the other woman's wig. When something must be done, it MUST be done, and it makes no odds if you are this year's _prima donna_, you will fasten the stays of the woman playing the kitchen maid and be demmed to you if you complain.

It is very much like a clockwork machine, and those who work within it find ways to plan, ways to make do, ways to make it work. Above all, they find _ways_.

Marguerite St. Just, the leading lady of Le Comedie for nearly three years, was resting during the interval, and in the small portion of her mind that was not occupied with the intricacies of her part, she was very busy finding a way. Her sharp wits had often done battle with men of intelligence, women of distinction, lords and ladies of court, and foreigners of note, but now those wits were doing battle with one thing, and that the most difficult thing of all - her own happiness.

A backstage aide handed her a small box full of handkerchiefs - a prop for the next scene.

The dream of love and security, birthright of every woman, had been offered her by a man she felt only indifferent affection for, and did not easily trust. Naturally, this same offer had been made by dozens of men before, but no one had ever been as persistent as Louis St. Just, and no one, she was sure, would ever make her as angry as Louis had done. He must come to understand who she was, _what_ she was.

A comrade asked for her help in pinning up her hair, and Marguerite absent-mindedly complied.

As a cousin, Louis had a right to her company, and, in time, he might come to earn that feeling from her that every woman wants to feel, but does not know how to describe. But, he _never_ would earn _anything_ from her if he insisted on insulting her in this way! The presumptuous cad was taking over her life, and she would not have it!

But what to do?

Yes, what?

Oh, Marguerite! If you only knew the tangled, webby future that awaits you when the curtain rises again! Would any woman find the courage to face the moment of her life if she knew it was coming? Would the brightest, starriest woman in Paris have been so wonderful, so perfect upon the stage that evening, if she had known that to continue upon her present path would mean nearly four years of struggle, of pain, of utter disaster, and, finally, of grand fulfillment? Who knows what might have been, had this woman not had the wits and courage of a noblewoman, mingled with the constitutional strength of a crossbred bloodline, and perfected with a sweet heart and entreatable spirit? Truly, had Marguerite not been Marguerite, not one jot of it all would have happened.

The clockwork of backstage clicked and ticked around her - very soon she must listen for her cue.

Slowly, a plan formed in Marguerite's shapely head, and in desperation, she accepted it. Louis must be taught. His friends must be taught. SHE would teach them. It was a bold plan, (somehow she thought it wholly unlike her), and quite subtle, but then, she _was_ bold (and, indeed, subtle), and she could carry it through, she thought, if she had the right assistant. . .

Hm. . .

Who could help her in this terribly convoluted scheme?

She personally knew no one who would be _able_ to. . .

Then the curtain rose again, and the future was in full swing.


	9. A French Comedy Act 4 The Castle

**A French Comedy ~ Act 4 ~ The Enchanted Castle

* * *

**

Not a one of the many people who have been fortunate enough to once see Le Théâtre de l'Odéon will ever forget the magic of the sight. There is a certain something about it which goes far beyond the stones and mortar that make it up. The voices of gods have spoken within its walls, and perhaps it is that which causes the place to transcend the mortal. Both inside and out, the place spoke of wonders, of legends, of myths and dreams come true. A fairy palace it is, and many a Titania and Puck have worn grease paint underneath its roof.

The magic of the place was no doubt a factor in the ensuing drama - in which the leads were played by Mlle. St. Just and Sir Percy Blakeney - but I do not think that even the kingdom of Faeries could be blamed for the events of that night, for these humans' future was in the hand of a much greater Power.

Fate owned that night, and Chance guided every movement.

Blakeney was only slightly disgusted that they had arrived at the play very well into the second act. "Fashionably late" was something that he had only recently begun to accept as a social norm, and it was the main reason for his hatred of the theater. How could anyone be expected to follow the train of a story if you missed the first third, and a good portion of the second third? At least the _l'Odeon_ was well tenanted that night - it would give him something to do as he waited for the people on stage to go away.

Blakeney surveyed his surroundings with what was now a habitual nonchalance. It had taken him several weeks, but he had come up with this plan - or persona, at least - for the purpose of investigating the state of the French Government, and now he could wear it like a second skin. There were many things - and many people - in the theater that night which would, a bare two or three months ago, have interested him keenly, and he would have not been able to keep that interest from showing at least a little bit upon his countenance. Now, here in Paris for the purpose he was, he ought, he knew, to be watchful, keyed up, or tense with excitement. But, he had put on the person of "Le Dandy Anglais", and he scarcely had to try to look bored. It was indeed strange how easy it had been to assume an air of indifference and an inane stupidity that entertained, but did not impress.

Now then. What - or rather who - was here to be seen?

There was the Duc de Cambere, and the Marquis de Polot - the assemblies must have let out early that day, if those two ancient members of the council had energy still to devote to an evening at the theater. It must have been a successful session.

The Duchess de Linville was wearing a new scarf of bright ultramarine edged with gold - the colors of The Duc de Chinet. Blakeney snorted lightly. Love affairs were none of his business, but if the Linville faction of the Girondist Party had been showing weakness lately, the Duchess might well find herself in need of an ally from the other side of the argument.

The Baron De Batz was looking well - he always did, of course, but his usual rubicund features were not always so florid as they were at this moment. If Jean De Batz had been drinking, then he must either have been in no great need of his wits, or was celebrating some success.

Hm. Well. It might be a good thing if the Royalist Party had had a good day - as it seemed it had. It would be just about the only good day he would be able to report to Pitt. Blakeney had little hope that the good days would continue, for there was simply too much pride and arrogance being thrown about, and he very much feared that Pitt was right - only a few years of bloodletting would wake this people up.

The second act was nearly over, and a few of the assembled throng were already moving about in anticipation of the interval. Blakeney stifled a sigh, and leaned back in his seat, trying to seem indifferent and succeeding admirably. He polished his eyeglass absently, and contemplated the irony of this whole situation. The madness of the aristocracy was not in its expenditure of wealth, but in its indifference and lack of perspective. Truly, for a man like Blakeny, whose _noblesse oblige_ stemmed neither from his _noblesse_ nor from his _oblige_, it had been singularly difficult to for him to understand the sort of mind that would assume the world would always go on forever in the same way - simply because it always had.

Walking for a few months in Mary De Courcy's shoes had changed all that for him.

Forcing himself to see the world form a proud, disinterested, self-centered point of view had been more than illuminating. Now he could not only feel compassion for the starving, angry masses (whose cause he would have gladly taken up - had they not been of such violent disposition), but he also felt an intense sympathy for the detached aristocrat, who was, in his own way, just as starving as the oppressed peasant. The aristocrat starved himself out of reality, divorced himself from truth, and saw no value in connecting himself with the greater part of humanity. In short, the aristocrat cheated himself out of life.

_Someone must save these people from themselves, _he thought grimly.

The interval was a short one, and then, as the crowd hushed once more, and the actors began to move across the stage again, Blakeney began to see himself a little more in tune with the theatrical performance. Not that he understood the flow of the story any better, but the painted faces behind the footlights somehow touched him as similar to his own situation. Only, he mused, he was not getting paid for it, and he was sure that nobody realized how much of _his_ foolishness was a pretense. His mouth twitched in an almost suppressed smile. He was nobody's fool. . .

Of a sudden his mouth twitched again, and his train of thought halted. The Théâtre de l'Odéon never knew how close it came to being treated to a shout of laughter that would have brought the house down upon its foundations. It was nothing to do with Moliere's comedy, it was Blakeney trying hold back the most terrible need to laugh at the irony of it all.

Oh, for heaven's sake. . . why, oh why on earth, did his mind cast these things up at him just when he needed to be serious? With a titan effort, he restrained his laughter. He was an unemployed jester. . . and nobody's fool. . . Zounds, what a terrible pun. Just as well he couldn't speak it aloud, for Andrew might never forgive him.

Then the whole of the assembly fell into a anticipatory hush.

The play had progressed to the point where the leading lady - who, Blakeney had the good sense to note, was indubitably beautiful, and very good in the role - walked dramatically away from the small knot of men who were playing her brothers, and she looked out proudly and theatrically over the whole assembled throng, taking in the entirety of the crowd, her gaze enveloping the Theatre, and intensifying the hush.

It is impossible to say whether Sir Percy noticed Marguerite St. Just first - and it was his notice that drew her attention - or whether it was Mlle. St. Just's swift intent gaze at the St. Cyr box which awoke Sir Percy to the fact that something extraordinary - someone extraordinary - was upon the stage at Le Comédie-Française that night. Perhaps both glances happened at the same exact instant - a confluence of Chance and Fate so momentous that the history of the next age of Europe might have been built differently had the instant slipped but a little.

The words declaimed on the stage at that moment have lost their import - both through time's distance and the repetitive nature of words and plays - but it did not matter in the least what Marguerite was saying at that instant - for the eternity of time that is contained in a second, she was only looking. That man, the subject of so many rumours, Sir Percy Blakeney - "Le Dandy Anglais" - was sitting in the theater, at this moment, and he was looking at her! His eyes were focused on her eyes, how strange! His face and expression suddenly seared themselves onto her memory. He was here. . . how fortunate. . . he could be the perfect one to play the part she had planned. Yes, he would be perfect. The word bounced around in Marguerite's head. Perfect. . . . . . And then her next line was there to be acted and she automatically continued with her part.

For his part, Sir Percy had looked once and looked his fill at a woman who's vibrancy of personality, depth of heart and subtlety of spirit had somehow been communicated through that one compacted glance - one touch of eyes to eyes. He was not, at that moment, aware of anything but awe. Of a sudden everything he had been doing, his whole reason for being in Paris, even the very real and tangible people sitting in the box with him became completely unreal and almost unimportant. There, upon the stage, was a woman who could speak with her soul! A woman who _had_ a soul. . . Something in her glance had somehow utterly conquered the walls round his heart and his head, and he instantly regretted that he was not in France as his true self. That look. . . it was incomparably worth investigating. . . and he was here as a shallow, idiotic fool. He was scarcely a man at all - he was an entertainer to be looked at, never known for himself, and everyone - _everyone_ - believed the charade. And he had to keep them believing the charade. It would not do for even one Frenchman to know his real reason for being here. Or Frenchwoman, for that matter. . . Several swear words tried to relieve his feelings, but he somehow could not stomach the crudity of them next to the thought of that woman's look. A look of need, of pleading, yet also strength, of understanding and of intelligence, all bound up in something neither he nor anyone else has ever been able to fathom. A history and a future had flowed between them through the channel of that look, and greater men than he had been enchanted by far lesser outpourings of charm.

So much hung on that glance that the two players in it somehow knew something of its ultimate importance. For Mlle. St. Just, it was a searching look - her plan, and indeed her happiness, were on the line, and she had need of a brilliant, unforgettable and ultimately unconscious gallant. The glance was wholly selfish, and the motive not entirely fair-minded, but even in that swift meeting of eyes to eyes, Marguerite felt at once that she had looked upon perfection, and somehow that impression did not lessen as the play wore on, and the culmination of her plan came nearer.

For Sir Percy, there was a state of wonder, not to say disbelief. A man of good character and good sense is hardly likely to believe in love at first sight, and an Englishman of Sir Percy's mould was even less likely to simply succumb to it. But here it was. Undeniable. He was - suddenly, unintentionally and irretrievably - in the grip of some emotion he had never felt before, and the only definition he could find for it came a few minutes later, as the waves of laughter and applause broke out from the whole of an enchanted kingdom. It was the only reward they saw fit to lavish on a woman who had entertained them with a comedy.

Damn. . . It was love. . . And he could never see her again. . .

Blakeney applauded her, as was her due, then turned away, resolved not to let this night discomfit him.

But Fate had other ideas. . . and the next act was already prepared.


	10. A French Comedy Act 5 The Rescue

**A French Comedy ~ Act 5 ~ The Rescue

* * *

**

When the curtain fell at last, there was the general muffled hubbub of several hundreds of people preparing to move _en-masse_.

Marguerite paid little heed to the noise, and even less to the fact that this night it had taken nine curtain calls for the crowd to be satisfied.

What mattered it? She was a successful actress. The people loved her. The Green Room would be full, and Louis would no doubt try to claim a place by her side.

These thoughts were hardly unusual - she barely registered thinking them. A totally different subject was completely occupying her mind.

After a brief visit to her dressing room, in which she expertly whipped off her mask of grease paint, she tripped swiftly through the corridors at the base of the _Theatre_ and came running into the courtyard of _l'Odeon._ A few quick exchanges with guards and footmen secured her what she wanted, and after settling herself where she needed to be, for one brief minute, she allowed herself to breathe.

------------------------------------

Sir Percy and Sir Andrew had left the St. Cyr box together. Andrew was, at least outwardly, totally unaware of his friend's epiphany _in re_ Mlle. St. Just, and the St. Cyr's themselves showed nothing but dissipated approval for the play as an evening's entertainment.

Just as well. The walls around Blakeney's heart had gone up again. There would be no foolish or impetuous acts tonight.

Sir Percy called for his carriage, and the Marquis quite gallantly invited both Blakeney and Ffoulkes for late supper at _Chalais Bon_, a restaurant just down the Boulevard. Sir Percy saw Andrew almost interrupt, and bluntly accept for them, but Sir Percy was aware of the needs of his friend - indeed, he shared them - and so it was arranged that that the party would remain together - for the moment, at the least.

Then they saw Hayes, Sir Percy's coachman, draw the horses alongside, and then Bradly, the footman, took hold of the carriage door handle, as the gentlemen advanced toward the waiting vehicle.

------------------------------------

The door opened, and in a moment, the very object of her attention stood - or rather sat - in front of her.

"You are Sir Percy Blakeney, I believe?" Marguerite asked, in quite a normal voice.

Sir Percy concealed his shock well, but his friend was another matter.

"Wh. . . who are you? And how did. . . " he stammered out, until Sir Percy stopped him with a gesture.

Sir Percy then raised his eye-glass, bemusedly. "You are, of course, correct, dear lady," he said evenly, "And may I assume that you are the charming and beautiful Mademoiselle St. Just whom we have just had the honour of watching tread the boards?"

She smiled quite unaffectedly. "Yes, indeed, good sirs," she laughed, "At least, that is my name. . ." She offered her hand to Sir Percy, "I apologize for my unconventional method of introduction, but you would be amazed at how difficult it is for me to obtain any privacy whatever."

There was little room in the carriage, but Sir Percy gallantly took her fingers and half bowed over them. "I have the feeling, Mademoiselle," he said, "that I would be amazed at anything you manage to do."

She laughed sweetly. "And by the same token, it is positively astounding what I can get away with when I want to." She looked both at Sir Percy and his friend, "You see, I wanted to talk to you privately, so I merely asked which coach was yours, then asked the coachman to let me wait inside it, and when you came, to take us once around the courtyard. I only have a minute before I am missed." She swiftly looked out of the carriage windows, "So, I must be brief." Her voice became quite pleasantly coaxing. "Sir Percy, it seems that you and I - though we have never before met - are in something of a competition with each other. That is, all of Paris has plotted and contrived to force a meeting between us - hoping, no doubt, for such a clashing of minds that would set tongues wagging all the way to Orleans!"

"No doubt," said Sir Percy, calmly. His friend said nothing - he was only staring.

"Yes," Marguerite continued, "And I would like to quell these schemes once and for all. In a word, would you and your present company like to join me at my salon this evening?" She paused a trifle, "Let us prove to all, that brilliance - in all its forms - is a harbinger of kinship."

"Dear lady," said Sir Percy humbly, "That is the most sought after invitation in all of Paris, and thus, most of France. I would be a fool indeed to refuse you, but we are seven in our present company, are we not too many for your rooms?"

She laughed again, "No indeed, Sir Percy. Seven is but a trifle." She smiled her most charming smile at them. "So then, I might expect you at half past ten this evening?"

"You may, Mademoiselle." Sir Percy was very gallant.

The coach began to come to a stop - back where it began - and Marguerite turned to open the door and alight. Almost as an afterthought, she turned back to the still slightly stunned men, "And, if anyone asks you," she said, "you may tell them that I have _personally_ invited you. That will be enough." Then she stepped lightly out of the coach before either of the men could raise a hand to aid her, and walked quite happily back to her dressing room.

"And that," she said to herself with satisfaction, "will fix you, Louis."


End file.
